


Let the mourners come

by epistemology



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Hurt Jason Todd, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, gotta switch up my M.O. every once in a while, just to keep people on their toes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 19:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30128022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epistemology/pseuds/epistemology
Summary: Jason wakes up in a strange room with no memory of the night before. Good thing Roman is there to fill him in.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Jason Todd
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33
Collections: Romin Week 2021





	Let the mourners come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/gifts).



> Surprise?
> 
> This was originally for Day 5: Fuck or Die, but it also includes Day 2: Drugged and Blackmail, and Day 6: Gunplay
> 
> (Also, Happy Birthday Q! Enjoy the gunplay!)

There’s an odd taste in Jason’s mouth when he wakes up. It coats his tongue, so strong that he can almost smell it. His body feels heavy and the thought that something is wrong crosses through his mind the moment he realizes he doesn’t remember returning to his safe house the night before.

He opens his eyes. A room comes into view, lavishly furnished with a soft bed under his body and dim lights that kept his head from throbbing more than it already was. He can hear the distant sounds of heels clicking on tile from beyond the door, but they pass by and fade into the distance.

He sits up slowly, and a heavy comforter falls away. His naked body is littered with bruises, which explains the soreness, but he can’t remember where they came from. He raises a hesitant arm, then winces and lets it fall back to his side. 

He wants to remember. Why can’t he remember?

Another set of shoes come and go as Jason catalogues the room in his head. Small, but not cramped. Dark, but with enough light to make out the wallpaper, red with a subtle floral print. A glass of water sits on the small table by the bed, and there’s a desk against the opposite wall with all of Jason’s gear on it. 

He stands to make his way over there, maybe change, but immediately collapses into a heap by the bed. His legs are too unsteady, sore beyond belief. He’s never felt so sore.

_He’s being pushed into the splits. It’s farther than his legs have ever stretched to his knowledge, and Jason spares a thought to imagine the ease with which Dick can settle comfortably into this position. The mental picture is a welcome distraction._

He stands again, hand on the table for support. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he drinks half of the water. If it’s poisoned, well. He’ll deal with that when he comes to it.

He ignores the fingernails he notes are missing when he raises the cup to his lips.

The door opens right as Jason’s hand comes in contact with his helmet. He jerks it back, tries to assume a fighting stance. The woman who just entered smirks a little, as if she’s amused or mocking him in her mind. Jason tries not to feel humiliated and straightens his back instead.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Jason stares. “Confused.”

“That’s to be expected. How much do you remember.”

“Enough,” he lies, but it’s clear she does not believe him. 

“Wait here for now. He’ll be here momentarily.”

He tries to ask, “Who will?” but she’s already out the door by the time his lips form the words. He doesn’t realize she’s taken his gear with her until the sound of her heels has disappeared.

It takes another thirty minutes for the door to open again. Jason spends the time sitting on the bed, exploring injuries he doesn’t remember getting. There’s blood in his hair, bruises on his wrists and thighs, and his lower lip has a nasty split that stings whenever he runs his tongue along it. He could read into it, probably _should_ read into it, but Jason is tired, and his mind is still hazy.

_Wing, I need backup ASAP. Helmet’s cracked. I would bring some kind of filtering mask if I were you. This shit’s nasty._

When the mysterious _he_ finally arrives, Jason freezes.

Then he remembers.

_Mind already half gone, only one thought running through it. He needs something. He needs someone. Someone is on their way to help him. To make it stop. The pain will stop when the someone comes and helps._

_Another someone emerging from the shadows. A crisp, white suit and slicked back hair. A smile that doesn’t belong on a face like that. He shouldn’t have a face at all. Why shouldn’t he have a face._

_This isn’t Jason’s someone. Where was Jason’s someone?_

“Hello, little bird,” Roman says, and Jason bites his lip to keep from snarling, then winces when it aggravates his cut. Roman notices the action but says nothing. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No thanks to you,” Jason hisses. Why did he say that?

“Actually, I think you’ll find it’s all thanks to me. You were in quite the state when I found you last night. And being the kind, generous soul that I am, I brought you back here and fixed you up.”

Jason doesn’t want to dwell on what that means. Doesn’t want to dwell on the bruises that clutter his body in the most damning of places. It’s coming back to him in bits in pieces, fragmented memory after fragmented memory, but it doesn’t take a detective to piece it all together.

“Thanks for the help, then, but I think I’ve got it from here.”

“Do you?” Roman drawls, with a long look down Jason’s body. An unexpected wave of shame hits him, and Jason resists the urge to cover himself. It would be useless at this point. Roman already got a clear look at his erection, and had probably seen much more last night.

He grits his teeth. “Yes.”

“Hmm,” is all Roman says. The bastard. Then, he turns, inspecting the room. Jason half wonders why, but then— 

_Red wallpaper. A bed that’s far too comfortable for what’s about to happen. He doesn’t want it to happen. Or maybe he does. The pain clouds his mind and he just wants it to_ stop. _Something in the back of his mind screams danger, but Jason doesn’t care._

“You did a number on the bed frame.”

Jason glances over and sure enough, scratches in the wood stand out against the dark lacquer. He looks down at his fingernails again. The ones that aren’t missing are raw and bloodied, his thumbnail hangly loosely enough that he could bend it backwards without too much trouble.

_He makes a useless grab at the headboard when Roman finally releases his wrists and flips him over. A finger pushes inside him and he claws at the wood, whole body arching in pleasure. It’s extraordinary. It’s overwhelming. The pain is too much and this is exactly what he needs._

_A heavy weight settles onto the backs of his thighs, pushing them down. Another finger joins the first, then a third. He moans loudly, distantly aware of a chuckle behind him. The fingers disappear._

“Am I allowed to leave or not?” Jason knows it’s futile to ask. Roman isn’t one to simply let him leave, not without some form of compensation, at the very least. Jason would argue that he already got what he wanted, but then again, Jason had been the one begging for it.

_Please. Please, Roman. Harder. I need this. Please._

Roman smiles. It’s the same smile from when he first showed up in that godforsaken alley, the one that looks too cruel on such a handsome face. Jason had never seen him without the mask before last night, and the face underneath is still a bit of a shock. He looks like the kind of man who would apologize profusely if he spilt coffee on you. The kind of man who would offer to buy you another cup.

He doesn’t look like a rapist, but then again, no one ever does.

“You can leave,” Roman says casually, and Jason almost trips over himself. There’s going to be a catch, of course there is, but what it is remains to be seen. Roman slides a smartphone from his pocket and types something into it.

“Okay?” Jason says, unable to keep the question out of his voice. Roman does not respond, and a moment later the woman from earlier returns with his gear, the helmet suspiciously absent. The door clicks softly behind her, and Jason wastes no time in dressing himself. Roman watches silently.

When Jason stands, Roman says, “This room is bugged.”

That must be significant, but Jason can’t think straight and he just wants to leave and hide away in his shame. He knows he won’t speak to Bruce, to Dick, for weeks, and they’ll likely wonder why. He hopes they won’t push.

“That means I’ve got some nice little films for my viewing pleasure,” Roman continues. “It’d be a shame if someone else were to get a hold of them.”

Jason’s stomach turns. He doesn’t want to be sick. Not here.

“Especially if the Bat were to see it. Imagine how he might react.”

Jason doesn’t want to imagine it.

“Or Nightwing. Robin.”

Stop, Jason thinks.

“I wonder what they would think of you after that. You, _begging_ to be fucked by me. _Whining_ anytime I so much as slowed down.”

“What do you want?” Jason bites out. He doesn’t look at Roman, instead he traces the swirls in the wallpaper. Out of the corner of his eye, Roman isn’t looking at him either.

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he says. “It’s what you want. You seemed to enjoy taking it in the ass.”

“I was hyped up on sex pollen. Don’t make it anything other than what it actually was,” Jason warns.

Roman sits on the bed. God, Jason wants to sit down, but now that Roman is, he doesn’t want to join him.

“We could make this a regular thing, if you’d like,” Roman says. His hands are folded over that stupid cane, and he looks like a professional. Despite being dressed, Jason feels more naked than ever.

He scoffs, glances at the door, debates running. His guns were not returned with the rest of his stuff, so he wouldn’t get far. And with the pounding in his head, he would probably collapse before anyone even tried to take him out. “Yeah, how about no?”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Jason thinks, I shouldn’t have drunk the water.

Roman stands before he can react and the cane hits him hard across the face. Pain blooms in its wake, and he stumbles, catching himself on the wall. His hand comes up instinctively to assess the wound, but Roman is there before he can, pinning his wrists to the wall. His fingers dig into the existing bruises, making Jason’s vision go white. He can handle pain like this. It’s miniscule compared to what he gets on the regular as Red Hood, but his head is spinning and Roman is in front of him, the same as last night.

He tries to lash out, kick his legs, _something._ Roman forces him to the desk before he can, the edge digging into his stomach. It’s gonna leave a mark. _Another_ mark. Jason remembers a tender line on his back that could have easily come from the same position but flipped.

“Down, boy,” Roman whispers in his ear. Jason shivers. He hates that he shivers. He hates that he’s hard.

He pretends it’s just the leftover pollen, but they both know it’s not.

Gloved fingers palm his crotch, and Jason wonders why Roman even allowed him to get dressed if this was his plan all along. Probably so he can fulfill his insipid little fantasy of tearing them off.

Jason presses unwillingly into the touch, but then he’s flipped again and forced to his knees. His head is fuzzy now, just awake enough to stay coherent but not enough to resist. He knows what’s coming, and he waits in resignation for Roman to unbutton his pants.

Roman doesn’t.

Instead, he produces a gun from his jacket. One of Jason’s guns.

Jason is on his knees. He’s been drugged. There is a gun about to be pointed at his head. He’d be a fool to think he could get out of this one alive.

But Roman surprises him once again. He doesn’t aim the gun at Jason; he doesn’t pull the trigger. What he does is hold it out in front of him, barrel pointed down, and say, “Suck.”

It’s humiliating. It’s beyond humiliating, and the thought that the room is bugged jumps back into Jason’s mind uninvited. There’s that nagging worry that Bruce or Dick or someone might see this one day, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

He presses his mouth to the muzzle, testing out the cold metal. It scrapes against his lip, reopening the wound. He can taste blood. But he keeps going. Opens his mouth around the barrel, slowly at first and then far enough that the trigger guard hits his chin. It’s one of his glocks, and he’s thankful that it’s a shorter gun, not long enough that he has to deepthroat it. He wants to choke anyways, but he’s grateful for the extra deterrent. 

Jason chances a look up, at Roman. The man is looking down at him like Jason isn’t even a person, just something to be owned. Used. Commanded.

He gags around the gun. Roman’s expression sours, but Jason composes himself and takes it all the way into his mouth once more. He makes sure to swirl his tongue around it this time. Suck in his cheeks a little. The taste is off putting, but it’s better than having Roman’s cock shoved down his throat instead. That’ll happen again eventually, Jason is sure of it, but at least he can avoid it right now.

He runs his tongue along the side, delighting in the way Roman reacts to it and then hating himself for caring. Roman begins to move the glock, thrusting it in and out of Jason’s throat, blood from his lip messily coating the thing. Jason tries to keep up, and allows a moan to escape him, the way Roman wants it to.

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t _enjoy_ it. He doesn’t.

God, he’s hard. He wants Roman to fuck him already. To do something and give him release, but Roman only forces the gun down his throat until there are tears threatening to spill from Jason’s eyes. He thinks he tries to murmur, “Please,” but Roman takes no note of it. Or rather, he does but doesn’t care.

At some point Roman removes the gun from his mouth. Jason ends up on the bed again, back sinking into the mattress. He thinks Roman leaves, but his eyes are drooping and he can’t be bothered to check.

Roman had said earlier he could leave. Jason wants to leave. He thinks he wants to leave.

The bed is soft, and Jason doesn’t like the thought of moving. He wants to lie here and forget everything and let the haze clouding his vision take over.

Wasn’t he supposed to be waiting for someone? Wasn’t someone coming for him? 

A hand runs through his sweaty hair, gentle and soothing. The voice that goes with it speaks to him softly, and Jason allows himself to be lulled into sleep.

He dreams of red wallpaper.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](https://epistemologys.tumblr.com/)


End file.
